


Traces

by mousemind



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, It's sad but I promise it's happy, M/M, Nothing on screen!, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousemind/pseuds/mousemind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm right outside the window!" Jared exclaims, "I'm holding that bottle of champagne. I remembered it and then I was here. I can see you, Richard. Can you see me?"</p><p>"No," Richard says, his voice thin and tight, threatening to reveal some long-repressed emotion.</p><p>"I'm standing right in front of you," Jared says, sadly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traces

**Author's Note:**

> A part of this was written for the prompt "someone comes back as a ghost" but I wrote more! Also, I wanted it to be happy. Because at the end of the day we all just want to see two dorks love each other, and that's that.

There are supposed to be people at a funeral.

There are supposed to be a lot of people congregating and weeping and saying nice things and making sure that this person's memory lives on.

"Hey," Erlich says gently, touching Richard's arm. "It's getting late. Want me to drive you home?"

"There are supposed to be people at a funeral," Richard says, like an idiot. And he knows he must be right because even Erlich doesn't call him an idiot, and instead ushers him gently to his van and makes sure he gets into bed safely.

\-----

And he ends up with Jared's stuff, too.

Not that there's very much of it; hardly any at all. But what he does have isn't junk.

An expensive-looking bar of soap, still unopened, wrapped in a fancy, heavy paper, but faded and worn.

An unfinished box of chamomile tea.

Old pay stubs - first from Hooli, each check larger than the last. Then from Pied Piper, gradually dwindling.

And three photographs: One of a woman with long, dark hair and Jared's familiar, thin smile. One of a spotless, seemingly new apartment, sparsely decorated but inviting, all the same.

And one of Richard. A candid photo, almost overexposed, of Richard sitting at his laptop. Richard thinks the pinched, studious way he's looking at the computer screen makes him look terrible and he almost, retroactively, wants to tell Jared it's okay, just ask me for a better photograph if you want one so badly. Look, here, I'll pose for you right now.

And then Jared would tell Richard to smile, which he would feel sort of weird about, but wouldn't say no because of how pleased Jared looks.

And then Richard would ask, "is it good?"

And Jared would say, without even looking at it, "you always look good."

Richard throws out the photo and puts a stop to this fantasy before it gets any more real, more full, more painful.

\-----

He pulls the photo out of the trash.

\-----

It doesn't get easier, but it does get more manageable the busier Richard stays. People stop walking on eggshells around him. Erlich begins to threaten evicting him again. It doesn't sound like a furtive, ugly secret when people say Jared's name aloud. Richard sometimes smells the old bar of soap before he goes to bed, but for the most part, the sun rises and sets, and Richard trudges on.

\-----

Richard sees it out of the corner of his eye.

Text generating on his computer screen.

Panic bubbles up in him as he curses loudly, jolting to the desk and all but throwing himself into his chair. He doesn't even take the moment to think about how impossible this all is: after all, it wasn't long ago that text seemed to be just as miraculously deleting itself from this same screen. The instant he sits down, the stream of incoming text immediately stops. 

_> hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello hello h_

It stops like that, mid-word. Richard goes to delete the text, and then:

_> hello Richard_

Richard lifts his hands from the keys, his blood running cold.

"What is this," he says, somewhat to himself, somewhat to whoever must be doing this to him.

_> please don't be frightened_

Richard laughs, a bit sharply. If this is a prank, it's not one he's enjoying. So he cracks his fingers and types back,

> I'm not. I'm angry.

There's a pause, and Richard watches the cursor blink. He feels like his heart thuds in his chest in time.

_> apologies for angering you_

_> I know this is strange_

_> Richard_

_> it's Jared_

Richard leaps up from his seat. He doesn't know quite what he's feeling, suddenly teeming with anger, shock, betrayal, fear, too many feelings to fully parse.

"This is mean," he says to the empty room. "This is really, really mean."

He looks around, expecting to see someone peering around a corner, or sniggering from down the hallway. It's as silent as ever.

"Stop it. Stop it. Gilfoyle, or... whoever this is. Stop."

The screen alights again, and text appears letter by letter, not as quickly as before.

_> I know this is frightening, but Richard_

_> this isn't a prank_

_> it's really me_

Richard sits down and types again, furiously this time, his vision blurred with both tears and a tinge of panic.

> Oh yeah? Then say something only Jared would know.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Nothing. Richard smiles, feeling bitter and vindicated. Richard knows that he can be gullible, a little too idealistic for his own good, but Jared's been dead for six months, and no amount of wishful thinking can erase that.

The text begins again:

_> One night you were up late, stuck troubleshooting something I didn't quite understand_

_> I stayed up to keep you company_

_> and you recited through the first half of The Return of the King, doing all the voices_

_> you were crouching on that red chair_

_> the one behind you_

Richard sits down, heavy with disbelief. It continues:

_> I told you that I laughed so hard I felt nauseous_

_> I walked you back to your room and you kissed me_

_> right there in the hallway_

_> I said something silly that still embarrasses me_

_> I said_

Richard types back, before the text can appear

> "This is a pretty good dream"

_> yes_

Richard presses the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard that he sees stars.

"Oh, God," Richard exhales. "I don't -- "

He steels himself and types back,

> Why are you here?

_> it's okay, you can talk out loud. I can hear you._

_> and I like to hear your voice._

"Jared," Richard says, and just saying his name almost makes him feel more present. It's been so long since he's said it, or heard it, even. The last half a year has been a tightrope act between thinking of Jared too much and willing himself to think of him not at all. And now he's... here. Somewhat.

"Are you in the room?"

_> in a way_

_> I'm here and I'm not here_

"Have you always been?"

_> no_

_> it was hard_

_> I wanted to be, so badly_

_> it took time_

_> I wish I could touch you_

"I miss you," Richard says, and maybe he does begin to cry, just a little.

_> Oh_

_> Richard_

The cursor blinks and Richard could swear he smells Jared's unmistakable starch-and-mint. 

_> I miss you so much_

\-----

Jared's voice comes out of his computer speaker. Crackly at first, like an old radio broadcast, but the more that Richard speaks to him the clearer it gets, like a picture coming into focus. 

"How long can you be here this time?" Richard asks. The first time he had heard Jared's voice, the emotionality was too high. The tenuous bridge between them had snapped; Richard's computer sputtering and shutting off. 

"I'm not sure," Jared replies. "I'm so happy to speak to you." 

"Where are you?" 

"Across from you, sometimes," Jared says thoughtfully. "I'm not really anywhere. When I think of your face, when I can picture what you look like when I hear you laugh or bite your nails, then I'm here and I can see you so clearly."

"And when you can't?"

"Then it's nothing at all." A pause. "It's hard to explain, Richard."

Not wanting to lose him again, Richard shift subjects as fast as he can.

"Do you want to hear about the stupid new app Erlich just invested in?"

"Yes," Jared replies, his voice a breathy rush of static and relief, "Yes, I do." 

\-----

"Hey," Erlich says, knocking on Richard's door as he pushes it open. "You busy?"

Richard shakes his head and closes his laptop. He notices Jared's wrapped soap sitting beside him on the desk, and quickly shoves it in a drawer. 

"Nah," Richard answers quickly. "What's up?"

Erlich looks at him with an unfamiliar, weighty expression.

"Just checking in," he says vaguely, nonchalantly, which is, of course, the first vague and nonchalant thing Erlich has ever done. "How are you?"

Richard squints back at him suspiciously, and just the fact that Erlich hasn't knocked him upside the head for wasting his time is enough to tell Richard that the incoming conversation is one he'd rather not have.

"What," Richard demands, and it isn't a question at all. 

Erlich leans heavily against the doorjamb.

"Kiddo," he sighs, "what's going on?"

"Nothing's going on." 

"Hey, I'm not stupid," Erlich snaps, almost mercifully back to normal. "You're acting weird."

"Well, I'm not," Richard retorts. "So. That's it. I'm not."

"You're talking to yourself," Erlich says quickly, barreling over Richard's half-formed excuse. "I hear you. Every night." 

There's a long, uncomfortable silence. Richard looks away, partly angry, partly mortified. He wants to tell Erlich the truth but is much too scared of the consequences; not that Erlich won't believe him, but that Erlich may be right, and Richard really is talking to no one at all. 

"Are you okay?"

Richard gives a jerky, noncommittal nod. "I'm okay." 

"And if you weren't you'd tell me?"

"Yeah." 

Erlich pushes himself off the wall with a small grunt and smooths down the front of his shirt. 

"All right, then," he says, heading for the door. At the last minute, he calls back to Richard over his shoulder, "Go to sleep. It's late." 

"You're awake," Richard answers, childishly. 

"Yup," he hears Erlich say from halfway down the hall, like that's any sort of answer at all. Richard opens his computer and types, knowing Jared isn't here right now, but taking some comfort in knowing he may read it some time soon.

> I'm not crazy

> I love you 

> Goodnight 

\-----

"Richard," comes Jared's voice, sounding muffled. He snaps to attention and turns up the speakers on his laptop.  

"Richard!"

The voice doesn't get louder. It's not coming from his computer at all.

"Jared?" Richard shouts back, feeling something like panic and elation alight in his gut. He remembers to keep his voice down. "Where are you?" 

"Richard, I'm outside! I'm outside the window! I can see you!" 

Richard runs to the shitty plastic blinds so quickly he trips over his own feet, pushing each one aside one by one with careless ferocity. One by one, each closed window fully reveals the outside. One by one, there is still no sign of Jared.

"Jared," Richard pants, out of breath and almost frightened, "I don't see you."

"I'm right outside the window, Richard!" Jared exclaims, and Richard can hear his voice, distant, but clearly coming from outside. "I'm holding that bottle of champagne. Do you remember? The first night I came here?" 

"Wait, wait," Richard tries to interrupt, "The -- like -- three years ago?" 

"Yes!" Jared sounds almost giddy. "I remembered it. I remembered walking up. Feeling so nervous. Seeing the lights still on. The champagne was cold but I was sweating. I remembered seeing you through the window. You were wearing a pink shirt."

Jared's voice moves outside the window, like maybe he's pacing.

"Richard, I remembered it and then I was  _here_. I can see you, Richard. Can you see me?"

"No," Richard says, his voice thin and tight, threatening to reveal some long-repressed emotion.

"I'm standing right in front of you," Jared says, sadly.

"I can't see you."

"I'm holding the bottle of champagne," Jared counters almost pleadingly, like that might unlock something.

It's hard for Richard to sleep that night.

\-----

"If I can remember it, I can be there," Jared says, slowly. He's speaking again, this time from across the room. "I remembered the lump in this sofa cushion, and then I was here." 

"I can't see you," Richard says, despairingly, for what feels like the hundredth time. It's been a week, and neither of them have gotten any closer to figuring out what to do. Richard thinks of little else, hardly wants to try or do anything but crack this.

"You look so handsome tonight," Jared says.

"Don't," Richard replies, warningly. He turns his face away from where he thinks Jared might be. "Um. Don't."

\-----

"Listen," Erlich says, slamming down a plate in front of Richard. On it is a peanut butter sandwich, thoughtfully sliced. "I wasn't trying to make you feel... weird. Whatever you need to do to feel better, you do it. Okay?"  
  
Richard looks at the sandwich, then at Erlich, and even as angry and distracted as he feels, Richard can't pretend not to notice the genuine, unselfish care.

"You wanna talk to Jared? Talk to Jared." The look he gives Richard is soft, but not piteous. "But if you wanna talk to me - you know, for real - that's okay too."

"Thank you," Richard says. It's sincere. Erlich claps him a little too hard on the back and walks away.

\-----

"It's just that..." and Jared's voice trails away, leaving too long of a pause. "I guess it's that I don't really remember what I look like."

"What?"

"When I picture myself in these places I picture what was around me, who was there, how it felt." Then, in a small, embarrassed voice, "Mostly, I think of what you looked like there."

Richard blushes, just a little. He leans a bit away from his computer, like that makes any difference.

"But I can't picture what I look like."

"Can't you just imagine yourself there? Like, maybe not what you looked like on _that day_ , but how you generally looked... but in a specific place?"

"Oh," Jared says, and his voice is almost a whisper. "Richard. I... I don't remember."

"Remember what?"

"What I look like."

"How can you not remember what you look like," Richard splutters incredulously, too loudly. Jared's voice sounds unnaturally distant the next time he speaks, almost muffled.

"I never liked to look at myself," Jared confesses. "It's been easy to forget."

"Jared," Richard huffs, and then lets the rest of the sentence die on his tongue. He exhales until there's no more air in his chest.

"I'm sorry," Jared says, so quiet, even further away still.

"You were - " Richard stops himself there. "You are tall."

"Oh," Jared gasps. He laughs a little, and it feels _present,_ like it's next to Richard's ear or something. "Yes. I... was embarrassed of that."

"Dark hair. Nice. Always neat."

"Right."

"Your eyes are are sort of, um," Richard pauses, wants to get this exactly right. "You always look a little concerned. It's sweet. When you look at me I feel like you're really looking at me. Do you know what I mean?"

"A little."

"And your eyes are blue. Like, stupidly, unrealistically blue."

"I had a big nose," Jared mumbles, and in that moment Richard can see him. Not _really_ \- not in the room - but so, so clearly in his mind. Jared, turning away, embarrassed and flushed, those large, thin hands folded in his lap, shoulders drawn up, tight.

"I liked it," Richard confesses, feeling bold. He feels a bit smitten, like falling in love again for the first time. "I always did."

\-----

"I'm next to you," Jared says quietly, and Richard really, truly hears it like a whisper in his ear. "Do you hear me?"

Richard rolls over in his bed to face where he imagines Jared might be.

"Yeah," Richard replies. "I do."

"I can see myself," Jared confesses, equal parts proud and sheepish. "I'm imagining myself in my pajamas. Is that stupid?"

"I'm wearing mine," Richard answers, smiling.

"I have pale skin. I have long fingers. You can see my ribs when I stretch."

"Yeah," Richard says, a new kind of sadness pooling, ice-cold, in his stomach. "Yeah, all of that is true."

"I like the way your hair looks when I run my fingers through it."

And, so softly it could almost be wishful thinking, Richard feels those familiar cool hands in his hair.

"Jared," Richard croaks, as evenly as he can manage. "Are you doing it right now?"

"Yes," Jared says wistfully.

"Do it again."

Again, Richard feels it, the sensation more immediate this time. 

"I feel it," Richard yelps. "Jared, I feel it."

"I'm touching your - "

"My arm!"

"Yes!"

"Put your arms around me," Richard all but demands, and suddenly he's warm all over, and he recalls what Jared's detergent smells like, and what his palm, splayed protectively over the small of his back feels like, and how wonderful and terrifying it was, that first time when they'd held each other just like this. Richard remembers. Jared remembers. It's impossible to forget.

When Richard opens his eyes, Jared is looking back at him with those stupidly, unrealistically blue eyes.

"You can see me," Jared whispers, tentatively, like even acknowledging it will shatter this impossible, phenomenal thing.

"You have an amazing smile," Richard says.

"I remember," he replies. Jared suddenly remembers what it feels like to kiss Richard, and, should Richard have forgotten, Jared is all too happy to remind him.


End file.
